


Longest Night

by sister_coyote



Category: Irish Mythology, Táin Bó Cúailnge
Genre: M/M, Mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-21
Updated: 2006-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_coyote/pseuds/sister_coyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The longest night was not a high festival, and yet it occupied the mind of the Hound of Culann.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Longest Night

They were young when they met for the first time: young and foolish, full of pride and swagger, in the halls of Dún Scáith under the watchful eye of the lady of shadows. It was Ferdiad who had been her student longer, then, although only by a few turnings of the moon, and it was Ferdiad who spoke first, when they met in her halls.

"You are the best blood of Ulster," he said, bold as the sun.

"So they say," said Cú Chulainn.

"I am your equal, the son of Connacht," he said.

"Are you?" Cú Chulainn said, mildly, which made Ferdiad bristle.

"The land of the sons of Conn sent me to Scáthach," he said; "do you malign them, or me?"

"Neither," said Cú Chulainn, "but words cost nothing, and bold speech is lighter than dust."

"Then fight with me," said Ferdiad, "and we will see."

So they fought, the first time of many times—fought as the young men they were, wrestling without weapons and without meaning one another true harm. In the end, Cú Chuliann pinned Ferdiad with one hand planted in his thick fair hair, and Ferdiad writhed and struggled and finally laughed and said, "I concede, I concede, Ulsterman, now let me up."

Cú Chulainn did, and said, "I would not swear I could best you twice in a row, son of Connacht. I would rather meet you as a friend than an enemy, in truth."

"As would I you, so call me Ferdiad and not 'son of Connacht.'"

"And you will call me Cú Chulainn," he said.

* * *

In the years that followed, Scáthach could be heard to say that, though one of them was called 'hound,' yet they were more like young wolves: cubs of the same bitch, trying their strength against one another, dearest friend and best rival. No other student of Scáthach could be said to be as close to either of them as they were to each other, and though they fought with increasing savagery—such was their strength—never but it ended in laughter, even as Ferdiad wiped the blood from his face or Cú Chulainn favored a bruised shin.

But as Cú Chulainn grew older, as the years passed and increased his stature, the breadth of his chest, the strength of his arm, the switftness of his foot—the choice he had made weighted on him more and more, and he remembered more and more the prophecy of Cathbad, and his fate of a short life but a brilliant one.

And Ferdiad was not unaware of this, for all that the Hound of Cúlann sought to conceal it, for they were friends closer than brothers. And it weighed heavy on his heart when he thought of it.

* * *

The day when the night was longest was not a high festival, though it stood as the midpoint between the festivals of Samhain and Imbolc. There were no formal rites, though they lit a great fire—larger even than usual—in the hall, to show the sun the way home, and burned sweet herbs.

When Cú Chulainn went out, when the great fire had descended to embers and all others in Dún Scáith sought the warmth of their fur-lined beds, snow yet shone on the ground. The water of the spring had frozen over, hard and dark, so that he could put his full weight on it. He stepped out onto the ice, and felt it numbing-cold on the soles of his bare feet. Above, the sky spread, endless black, shining with pale starlight. The air smelled cold and wild, like the horned moon. The wind slid under his cloak and drew gooseflesh on his skin.

He heard footsteps behind him, but did not turn.

"The longest night is meant for fires and furs," Ferdiad said, behind him. "Not standing alone in the cold."

"I am stronger than the night or the winter," he said, although he knew the words had the taste of bravado to them.

"Then come in for my good and not your own," Ferdiad said. "It does my heart no good to see you here, and to worry that you will make yourself sick with cold."

"And it would do your heart more good to see me in my bed, to dream away the long night?"

There was a long silence, and then Ferdiad said softly, "You know as well as I that it would do best by my heart to see you in my bed, and we will keep the long night at bay."

Cú Chulainn turned to look at Ferdiad, and it was as though he saw him, truly, for the first time: the greatest warrior of Connacht, bright and bold as the sun, warm as the sun on this cold night. And he said, "Yes. My bed or yours, and we will keep the night at bay."

_And we will keep fate at bay, for a time_ he thought but did not say, and saw in Ferdiad's eyes that he thought it, too.

Neither of them was an innocent in the ways of the flesh, but it was different, when they went together to bed—silent as a secret, though neither was ashamed: it was simply that that felt more right, on the darkest night. Ferdiad fed the fire, and Cú Chulainn shed his cloak, and it was not strange to see one another without clothes—they had bathed together in the spring many times, in highsummer when it was not frozen but flowed swift under the hot eye of the sun—but it was new, now, on this night, by the light of the fire, with the cold moon shining through the casement.

"You are dearer to me than any brother," Cú Chulainn said.

"You say that, who have no brother," Ferdiad said, laughing, and then he sobered. "But you also—I thought you would be my best enemy, when you came to Dún Scáith, but you—"

"Hush," said Cú Chulainn, and they went together toward the bed, as they might have when they were younger, wrestling together: but breathless for another reason.

And at first it was strange, the touch of hands, the play of muscles beneath skin, and they were both hesitant—and unused to hesitance—until Ferdiad said, without thought, "You are nothing like a woman."

And Cú Chulainn laughed in startlement, and said, "You expected otherwise?"

Ferdiad said, "No, but—" And Cú Chulainn kissed him, tasted his mouth, his throat, his body not with the solid curves of a woman like the gentle slopes of the land but planes and fierceness like the sea, fierceness and brightness, wild and strong—and they moved together then and it was pleasure like lying with a woman, but delight like struggling with a favored champion, a beloved enemy. The pleasure curled in with that, wound as tight with that delight as the curves of the triple spiral, until they were both undone.

Afterwards, in the firelight, Ferdiad's skin flushed as if stained with blood, and Cú Chulainn breathed as hard as were he fighting for his life. And he thought: perhaps he was, perhaps this _was_ life, a life short but blazing, like the day that preceded the longest night, like the fire that held the cold at bay. Ferdiad said nothing, and neither did he; there was nothing to say. But he combed his fingers through his blood-companion's hair, and watched the fire blaze down to coals and the moon shine through the window of Dún Scáith.


End file.
